Unattached
John clutched his jacket tightly around his shoulders and stepped out of the bar. His walking stick felt like the burden it normally was and John felt his shoulders droop when the horrible day he had witnessed flashed through his mind like a movie montage. There seemed to be no takers for a bachelor wanting to reside in London; at least none with rents he could afford. Bills were piling up, and he needed to find a job, and he needed to do it quick. His therapist hadn't said a word to him about his payment, but he knew it was due. He hadn't had enough money to wire the money to her account, but those bills were the least of his worries.
Harry had offered to help him pay his bills, but he had been quick to decline her offer. She was barely able to take care of herself, let alone taking care of his bills. Besides, there had been some bitterness that remained between them after she split with her wife, and so that was the reason why Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, found himself roaming about the streets of London aimlessly on a Wednesday evening. He had enough for a pint or two, but he remembered an earlier tab he had with the pub he had been frequenting in the time he had been in London; he had money to finish off the tab, but John wanted to drink tonight, not pay off old tabs. He made his way through a couple, before spotting a relatively new pub. New pubs meant that they would prefer new customers, he thought, and he entered the club.
John wasn't a slow person; he may be handicapped because of the psychosomatic limp in his leg, but he wasn't a slow person mentally. Afghanistan had changed a lot of things in him, and one of the things that it had helped him with was to remain vigilant. He could take in his surroundings, he could observe; but more than that, John became practical. When he entered the pub, he instinctively knew that it wasn't a regular pub. He saw scores of men sitting around the pub, or hitting on other men. When he approached the bar, he saw a couple of them eyeing him. He realized that it wasn't a normal, new pub; nevertheless, he sat down on a bar stool and waited for the bartender to come his way.
John had more than his share of experiences in Afghanistan. Hard times made them clamour and stick to whatever comfort they could find. John found himself rediscovering many things himself; his views on life, on people, on the scene around him; he drank it in, engraved it into his bones. And he found himself questioning his sexuality more than a few times. He had always admired the human anatomy, be it a man or a woman. He had dated women, primarily, since that was what he thought he was comfortable with. But the more time he spent with the soldiers, the more he found himself asking the same questions he had asked himself in adolescence. Questions turned into absolute truths and he let himself go. The affair with a fellow soldier [even though John was an army doctor, but he had bad times] blossomed, but did not last long. He tried not to think about it much, but it came to him; short, brief flashes of memories of the war, coupled with seemingly insignificant moments shared. John did his best to forget that, though; images of his former love brought back images of Afghanistan; it was far too intimately interwoven, and he needed to eradicate Afghanistan from his mind.
Sitting on the bar stool, he noticed a man with short, ginger hair sitting beside him, solemnly drinking his whiskey. He looked at John and smiled, and John found himself smiling back, before the man's attention was diverted towards something behind John. Curious, he turned to see a tall, lanky man with a mop of black curls striding through the dancing floor and coming towards the bar. He had a long overcoat and his neck was hidden from sight by a purple scarf. The lighting was low, so John could not make out how his face looked, but when he turned towards the ginger haired man, he was quickly paying his due and attempting to leave the pub.
Probably an ex boyfriend, thought John as he shrugged and ordered his drink. John wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings; he was eagerly waiting for his pint, but then he heard a shout from behind him and turned, watching the ginger haired man being pinned on the floor by the overcoat wearing man. John got up as a pretext of ending the fight, but stepped back as he saw a police officer enter the club. He went over and handcuffed the ginger haired man, while nodding to the other man. The officer walked out of the pub and John saw the people around him relaxing, as he eyed the tall, lanky man again. He seemed to have hurt himself, as John saw him caressing his cheek once and twice, and he seemed to have lost his scarf in the scuffle. The man turned his gaze towards John and he swivelled back towards the bar, chugging his scotch quickly. John motioned to the bartender for a refill, when he felt a presence beside him on the bar stool.
"A glass of water, please." A deep, baritone voice spoke next to him and John saw the man press his palm against his cheek. There was definitely a cut there; not a major one, but John could imagine it must've hurt. As the bartender presented John with his refill and the man with the glass of water, he chugged down his second pint of scotch as quickly as the first one. Alcohol seemed to have given John some courage as he turned to the tall man and gestured towards his cut.
"May I? I...am a doctor." John felt his speech falter a bit; partly due to the rising amount of alcohol in his bloodstream and partly due to the full force of the stranger's eyes hit him. They seemed a gorgeous bluish-grey; but as the light changed they took on a completely different hue. It was as though his eyes changed with the man's moods, or the area where he would be. It seemed like pure magic and John could not stop himself from daydreaming about staring into those eyes till eternity.
The man with those magical eyes, however, seemed unimpressed and distinctively disinterested. He removed his palm and John saw a cut, probably caused by a blow to the cheek by a man wearing a ring, was starting to heal a bit, but it still needed some general first aid. John had a few band aids in his jacket pocket, thanks to the quick visit to the drug store he had made to buy some supplies, and he took one out, removing the protective layers and putting it neatly onto the man's cut. As he adjusted the band aid, he smoothed the sticky bits with his thumb and felt a shudder run through his back. The stranger had well-defined cheekbones, sharp and distinct in the low pub lighting. He saw the man's eyes widen with surprise before he pulled back, turning swiftly towards the bartender to thank him for the water. John put the packet of band aid in his jacket pocket and before he could make sense of it, the man had left the pub; he was not visible in the pub.
Did I scare him? Was I too forward? I should've given him the band aid to administer. Why am I over thinking this? I just helped him out. Just helped a stranger out. A stranger with beautiful, mystic eyes.
John shook his head and paid his due, finding just enough fare to take the underground to his temporary lodgings. He made his way to the station, for another nightmare ridden night.
He met Mike Stamford in the park, and Mike said he had someone he wanted John to meet. They went to Barts, and John remained oblivious the whole time. He was pretty free that day; the job search had been a failure, yet again, and his leg was starting to irritate him more than it normally did. Entering Barts, he saw the small and significant changes around the lab, before noticing a man in the lab, working over some chemicals. A phone was asked for by him, and John could not have imagined the same baritone from any other voice; the mystical eyes were turned towards him, but it was not those eyes that had him stumped this time.
Afghanistan or Iraq?
Words and an address were exchanged; a crime scene was visited; a restaurant, and a chase; his limp was cured. Another crack shot, and Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had a roommate.
He wondered sometimes if Sherlock remembered that night in the gay pub. Nothing had happened, of course; Sherlock had been there for a case, and he had been looking for a pub where he did not have a tab to pay. All he had done was to put a band aid on his cut. It was a simple thing. And a lot had changed since then; a great deal of things. Yet, when John remembered the soft lights, the electric eyes, the buzz of the scotch in his bloodstream, the rising temperature; he wondered. And when he looked at Sherlock at times when he thought he wasn't being watched, and when he looked at him straight in the eyes, those mesmerizing eyes of his, he thought he saw them flicker and sizzle, like an ember in a fire. He knew Sherlock deleted things he did not consider important from his mind palace, but in moments when he felt they exposed their innermost souls; Baskerville, many, many nights in Baker Street, and the stag party; John thought about that innocent touch, the ten seconds they had shared in a crowded pub; and he wondered. But he never questioned it out loud.
A/N: Thank you for reading this little fic I wrote! It's a one shot, so no continuation; just my take on things. Reviews are appreciated. Please favourite or write a review if you liked it; it will be terrible kind of you! All hail Johnlock! –Felix.